


we need umbrellas on the inside

by anivhee



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assumptions, Explicit Language, Feelings, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Overthinking, Pining, R's brain is not his friend, Rain, the important stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26521120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anivhee/pseuds/anivhee
Summary: Enjolras leans in more, which is not fair, not when he looks at Grantaire as if he really wants him to be on his side. It’s the first time Enjolras has actually used that look on him, as if he expects he can convince Grantaire, make him trust his word. Enjolras should know he doesn’t need to look at Grantaire like that to hook him. There’s no need for that.Enjolras claims he wants to make amends. Grantaire thinks he knows why.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 149





	we need umbrellas on the inside

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ana, Martina and Diana for the extreme hand holding during the creation of this. Also everyone who has been around lately and been supportive (shoutout to Discorinthe). Extra thanks to [Dove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merelydovely) for the beta! ♥ Any additional mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Title from "Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?" by Fall Out Boy (alternative title from the same song was: "i'm just a painter (and i'm drawing a blank)", lol).

It’s raining outside, the last days of summer blending in with autumn. The meeting ended a few hours ago, but since it’s Friday, everyone decided to stay in and have a cup of coffee. The weather helps give it a nice atmosphere, or so Grantaire thinks, watching out the window. Everyone is in good spirits, which normally makes him feel good, but today it makes him feel alienated. 

He knows he doesn’t help his case when he isolates from everyone, just like today, sitting at the counter instead of back at the table with his friends, but he supposes it’s just one of those days. The day just hasn’t been good to him, but it’s not like he can’t expect better. He’s not really a good person, why would good days happen to him?

There’s no point in dwelling on that. The rain hits the pavement outside, the sound mingling with his friends’ laughter in the café. It should be nice — it is, in its own way. It just makes him feel alone as well. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Grantaire turns and finds Enjolras leaning against the counter, looking at him. His stomach flips at the sight. It’s been a few weeks where things have been somewhat calm between them — or as calm as they can be — which has already put Grantaire on edge. Surely the other shoe was bound to drop at some point. He can’t help but think this is it.

Enjolras looks uncomfortable, though, which makes Grantaire nervous. What did he do now? 

Grantaire runs through the week in his head, trying to find something that could’ve caused Enjolras’ anger. He makes Enjolras angry on the regular, sure, but it’s never been enough to make Enjolras seek him out separately. If there’s ever a problem, Enjolras makes sure Grantaire (and everyone else) is well aware of it, so this must be special. Grantaire bites his thumb nail, unsure on how to react. 

Enjolras crosses his arms — right, he’s waiting for an answer. Grantaire shrugs, still not sure about Enjolras’ intentions. Grantaire looks for anger, or frustration, even resignation, anything in Enjolras’ face, but he only finds mild discomfort. His eyes dart back behind Grantaire quickly, but then they focus back on Grantaire’s own. 

“I wasn’t really thinking about anything,” Grantaire blurts out, not standing the silence that stretches out between them. “What can I do for you, dear Perseus? Finally arrived to take off my head?” 

Enjolras frowns at him. “What? No, I just— I wanted to talk to you, that’s all.” 

This is still not giving Grantaire enough information. “What about?” He leans against the counter too, trying to look relaxed but failing. Enjolras’ eyes flicker behind Grantaire again, but they’re back on him in an instant. Grantaire can hear the rain falling hard outside. 

“Well,” Enjolras starts, and then coughs, bringing his hand to his mouth. He seems to hesitate on what he wants to say, but then his frown deepens, staring deep into Grantaire’s eyes. “The past couple of weeks I’ve been thinking about the way I’ve treated you—” 

“Oh, you don’t _need_ to do this,” Grantaire cuts in. He turns, and sure enough, all of their friends are paying close attention to what is going on at the counter. They catch him staring and attempt to resume their conversations, but the damage is done. 

“Do what?” Enjolras bites out. He seems to be struggling with something, which makes sense now. So their friends are making Enjolras play nice with him, how kind. Grantaire really doesn’t need this right now, or ever. 

“Listen, you don’t have to apologize or whatever,” Grantaire says, finding his ground now. Now that he knows what this is about, he knows how to react. “I get it, I’m annoying. You’re within your rights to dislike me.” 

“I don’t dislike you.” Enjolras seems even more annoyed now. _Yeah, right_ , Grantaire thinks. 

“Honestly, Enjolras, drop it. If you’ve lost a bet, or something—”

“Can you let me talk?” Enjolras snaps. He uncrosses his arms. “For once, just shut up and listen to me.” 

Grantaire rolls his eyes as he fiddles with the spoon he used to mix his coffee. He can’t make himself look at Enjolras in the eye for this. 

It will be a heartfelt thing, he’s sure. Enjolras is not one to back down from a challenge, which Grantaire is sure this is. Either that, or he lost a bet. 

It’s not like he thinks it’s unlikely that Enjolras would ever feel remorse about the way he explodes at Grantaire at meetings — Grantaire knows he’s too different than the rest of their friends, knows Enjolras will never actually think of him as a friend, doesn’t really expect him to. He’s content with getting the fire directed at him sometimes. Grantaire knows he really doesn’t deserve more than that. 

The idea that Enjolras might find that distasteful — that he could feel bad for giving Grantaire the only thing he’s worthy of — is unbearable. He doesn’t want to face pity, or guilt. Hell, he doesn’t want Enjolras to _lie_ about it, either. Enjolras doesn’t _have_ to do this. Grantaire is suddenly annoyed at their friends for meddling.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire cringes. This is so not necessary. “I didn’t mean to snap like that. It just— it annoys me that you don’t let me explain.” Grantaire chances a look up and finds Enjolras staring back at him, undeterred. His cheeks are flushed, and while the sight is very enticing, Grantaire can’t help but think about how uncomfortable Enjolras must be feeling, forcing himself to come up with nice things to say to Grantaire. This is stupid. 

Grantaire tries to listen, though. He wishes he was able to deny Enjolras something, but that is such a stupid impossible thing. Grantaire would fly if Enjolras asked him to — Icarus desperate to reach the sun. 

Of course, he always burns. 

“Like I said,” Enjolras continues, “I’ve thought about the way I’ve treated you. I haven’t been very fair to you. No, don’t argue with me,” he says, raising his hand. “I know you think you’re annoying to me, and yes, you do annoy me.” Enjolras smiles. He fucking _smiles_ , what the fuck. He looks bashful — Grantaire can’t tear his eyes away now. Enjolras’ dimples are showing, which Grantaire has never experienced one on one. He thinks he’s going to faint. 

Enjolras looks down, then his eyes flick to the table, and Grantaire feels himself sour. Right. Their fucking friends. 

He wonders what on earth they have on Enjolras to make him do this. The thing is, Enjolras doesn’t like him. For a long time Grantaire was sure Enjolras hated him, and yes, it hurt, but at least it was _something_. The anger was something. Having his attention, having Enjolras’ eyes on him, reflecting the fire that was consuming Grantaire from the inside, was something. He knows it’s not healthy, but it’s not like Grantaire can really afford anything different. 

He’s known he’s not made for love for a long time. Soft touches, sweet whisperings… those things don’t happen to him. He’s too coarse, too hard around the edges. He can’t imagine anyone looking at him and seeing someone worthy of their time and energy. It’s never been like that. 

Sure, it doesn’t have to be soft. Love can be raw, can be blood and viscera. It can hurt. For Grantaire, it always hurts. For him, being in love is like a papercut — he never expects it. Fuck, he has never _wanted_ to fall in love. 

Growing up unwanted, pushed aside, he went through enough heartbreak to last him a lifetime. He had to keep up quickly with his environment. Grantaire couldn’t fall in love with anyone — for survival’s sake. 

Unfortunately, all his self preservation goes out the window when it comes to Enjolras. 

“But,” Enjolras says, startling Grantaire out of his reverie. “You also make me feel so many other things.” He looks at Grantaire through his lashes, as though this is making him embarrassed. It probably is, judging by the color on his cheeks. This is clearly torture for Enjolras. Grantaire notes the way Enjolras is drumming his fingers on the counter, how he switches his weight from foot to foot, and secretly sympathizes with him. No one should be forced to make nice with an asshole, especially when the asshole is Grantaire. 

“I’m not very good at this,” Enjolras continues. His blush is going down his neck, and by God, Grantaire wishes so desperately that he could touch him, at least brush the lint off his shirt. He wishes he could do so much more. His brain catches up, though, and his stomach churns. Right. Despite being a very eloquent man, Enjolras rarely has to apologize to anyone. His values are set in stone — if someone crosses them, they hardly need to be apologized to. 

Grantaire stares at the spoon, for lack of anything else. He thinks of Alice, becoming tiny and escaping in a little jar, and wishes he could become as small as he feels. 

“The thing is,” he hears Enjolras say, “that sometimes I can be cruel. I know I’ve been cruel to you, without really meaning to.” Grantaire can’t help it — he looks up to Enjolras again, finds him staring back with the intensity that knocks Grantaire’s breath away every single time. How is he supposed to breathe when he has Enjolras’ eyes on him, anyway? 

“I want to apologize to you for treating you so badly. My temper gets the worst out of me sometimes, which is not a valid excuse, and I know you like to provoke me, but I still think I’ve crossed the line multiple times.” Enjolras looks so earnest, which is ripping Grantaire apart. This is so wrong. Grantaire wants to believe him so much, but he’s also upset on Enjolras’ behalf. This shouldn’t have to happen. 

Enjolras leans in a little, the movement catching Grantaire off guard — he’s close enough now that Grantaire can smell his aftershave. The fact Enjolras uses aftershave is making Grantaire’s brain spin; he wants to lean in too and see if he could get a whiff of anything else, and then wants to throw himself off a hypothetical window for even coming up with such creepy shit. Talk about crossing the line…

Grantaire can’t help himself, though. He angles his body towards Enjolras, lets himself be captured by his eyes and his voice; for a moment, Grantaire is willing to lean in and pretend to conspire against something, anything Enjolras wants. For a second, he lets himself believe they’re actual friends, that this is just a thing they do: Enjolras accompanying him to get drinks, leaning in casually and maybe letting his weight press against Grantaire’s side. Enjolras smiling at him, trusting and open, as if Grantaire is actually worth his time. 

“I want to make it up to you.” His stomach sinks — there it is, the thing Grantaire was dreading to hear. One thing is making Enjolras apologize or whatever, but actually making him _do_ something for Grantaire is just ridiculous. A part of him knows it’s not unlike Enjolras to go big once faced with a challenge, but the thought doesn’t make him feel any better. If anything, it’s worse. 

Enjolras’ eyes are fucking gleaming, the blush is still on his cheeks and his posture is still off. The image is too confusing to understand — Grantaire doesn’t want to hope Enjolras actually means it, but if it were anyone else, the body language alone would match someone apologizing for real. It’s too good to be true, though. Then again, Enjolras isn’t really good at hiding his feelings… 

It makes no sense. 

Then it happens again — Enjolras’ eyes flick towards the table in the back, and Grantaire wants to punch himself. He fights the urge to get up and leave, since he doesn’t know what good that will do. Enjolras clearly needs to get this sorted if he’s being paid so much attention from their friends. 

At least that can explain the fidgeting and the blushing. He’s nervous. 

Enjolras clearly doesn’t want to do this. 

“Please,” Enjolras says, grabbing his wrist. Grantaire looks down to the point where Enjolras’ fingers hold his skin, as if feeling it is not enough to confirm it’s real. “I know I can’t really ask you to forgive me so quickly, but there really is a lot I need to let you know, and I want to tell you, but,” he looks over their friends again, which is enough.

Grantaire shakes his arm off and stands up. Enjolras jumps a little, but Grantaire is too angry. What even is the point to keep going with this? Is Enjolras expected to _keep_ going with this? What is this, are they supposed to go out for drinks together, have coffee sometime, become _friends_? They’re not friends. Enjolras doesn’t have to be his friend, this is stupid. 

“Don’t bother,” Grantaire says, and he’s mildly surprised to hear his voice hoarse. He hasn’t even had a drink yet. “You don’t have to do this.” 

“But I want to do this,” Enjolras says, leaning in again. He looks as if he’s ready to hold onto Grantaire again if he tries to move away. Honestly, what do they have on Enjolras? “Please, Grantaire,” he says urgently now. Grantaire doesn’t want to look, but he can definitely feel everyone’s eyes on them now. Enjolras leans in more, which is not fair, not when he looks at Grantaire as if he really wants him to be on his side. It’s the first time Enjolras has actually used that look on him, as if he expects he can convince Grantaire, make him trust his word. Enjolras should know he doesn’t need to look at Grantaire like that to hook him. There’s no need for that. 

“Since when do you want to spend time with me? Come on, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, leaning close. Enjolras’ eyes widen. Did he really think Grantaire was that stupid? “If it makes you feel better, sure, I accept your apology. Now go off and report back your success.” With that, he grabs his jacket and walks towards the door. He doesn’t want to see their friends’ faces. He doesn’t want to see Enjolras’ face. Whatever. This is whatever.

Enjolras doesn’t actually want to spend more time with him. He probably felt obliged to, which is stupid. He can be really stupid sometimes. 

Can he? 

The rain falls heavy on Grantaire as he steps out of the café, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. He puts his jacket on as he walks, angry and hurt, his boots hitting the ground and splashing up his legs. He wants to get drunk. Really damn drunk. 

He can barely see as he makes his way down the street, droplets of water plastering the curls on his face, the water running over his eyes. He thinks the weather is really proving itself to be on his side today, which is a win he wasn’t expecting, but he has little time to gloat. Soon, the mortification creeps in and he wants to bash his head against a wall. Did he have to leave like that? God. Enjolras only wanted to fulfill a stupid bet or something, he didn’t deserve to be talked to like that. Grantaire knows his mouth always runs before his head can catch up, but that’s no excuse. 

If anything, he should be angry at their friends. He _is_. What kind of horrible prank were they trying to pull there? Everyone and their mom knows how Grantaire feels. Is it possible that they’re just the same as everyone else? Would they try to make fun of Grantaire’s feelings, making Enjolras sweet talk to him and promise to hang out with him, as if Grantaire’s a fucking pity case? Well. He technically is. 

Grantaire is just an idiot. He’s so hurt, he let himself believe he finally had friends, and it ended up being the same as always. Always the butt of the joke, always the one everyone keeps around to mock and push around. The one idiot who doesn’t go away because he has nowhere else to go, so let’s fuck with him, let’s see how much he can take. 

It’s something he has fucking known forever. He can’t allow himself to imagine someone actually wants to be his friend. No one has ever wanted to _be_ around him, why the fuck would it be different now? If anything, he’s worse now than when he was a kid, desperate to get people’s attention, willing to be hurt over and over just to have a fucking seat on the table. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? 

He’s glad he didn’t see their table as he left. Grantaire imagines the sardonic smiles probably playing on their faces, the way they must have looked at each other, satisfied, and feels dizzy. He thinks he’s going to get sick. 

The rain falls so hard around him that he barely registers the noise behind him. It’s only when he stops next to a wall, sure he _will_ puke, that he hears it. 

“Grantaire!”

God, trust Enjolras to be stupid enough to walk out in the rain behind him. Fuck, why can’t he just let it go? Grantaire is thankful for the rain covering up his stupid tears. 

He doesn’t want Enjolras to catch up with him — he probably looks way worse than before, with all his hair glued to his head. Grantaire really has such an unfortunate head. If only the day could be over.

As it is, he thinks it would look even worse to run away now that he stopped, so he rests his head against the nearest wall and waits. Enjolras’ steps close on him and suddenly there’s a hand on Grantaire’s back. As soon as it touches him, though, it’s taken away, as if burned. 

Grantaire doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. Probably both. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, his voice small. Grantaire turns around, despite himself, and stares at the man before him, his hair also glued to his head, the water running down his nose and pooling on his cupid’s bow. Fuck, Grantaire feels the burn around his sternum, the way Enjolras’ eyes bore into his, looking for something. Fuck if Grantaire knows what. How can he even explain his stupidity now? _‘I panicked’_ would lead to confusion, Enjolras would want explanations, things would escalate when Grantaire talked, since that always happens, and— 

Grantaire takes a breath and looks up at the sky, even though it only makes the rain fall harder on his face. He runs a hand over it, pulling his hair away from his eyes, doing his best to avoid Enjolras’ gaze. Grantaire’s heart is pounding out of his chest, and he knows he’s making it worse by just being fucking quiet, so he scrambles for something to say. 

“You didn’t have to follow me.” His voice is still fucking hoarse. Grantaire supposes now with the rain it makes sense, but still. “They’re going to think you fucked it up.” He can’t help the bitterness bleeding out of his mouth. He wants to stop caring about it so desperately. He’s such an idiot. 

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras sounds angry. Really angry. Is this the moment when he blames Grantaire for fucking up? “Why the hell did you walk out like that? You didn’t even bring an umbrella.” 

“Did you bring me one?” Grantaire chances a look at his companion, who is also soaking wet and standing out in the open, rain falling freely over him. Enjolras seems to realize this and startles, looks up at the buildings around them and grabs Grantaire’s arm to pull him under a small roof. Grantaire tries really hard to ignore the swooping sensation in his belly. 

They huddle under cover, Grantaire shaking his arm free. He wants really desperately to leave Enjolras’ hand around his forearm, he really does, but he can’t handle the disgust that will probably follow after Enjolras lets him go. His eyes trail the water running down Enjolras’ neck, though, because he’s gross and disgusting and can’t help himself, and it’s only then that he notices that Enjolras isn’t even wearing a sweater. He’s only wearing his shirt, now plastered against his torso. Grantaire swallows past a lump on his throat and takes his eyes away. This is not right. He has no right to look at Enjolras like that. 

He takes off his jacket and gives it over. “You’re going to get sick,” he mumbles, not making eye contact. The last thing he needs is Enjolras getting sick because of him (and, obviously, he doesn’t want him to get sick at all, not Enjolras). 

Enjolras pauses but takes the jacket. Grantaire can’t still make himself look at him. “What about you?” He asks as he puts Grantaire’s jacket on. “Won’t you get sick?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

He knows Enjolras wants to argue, but he stays quiet. They stay quiet for a while, Grantaire desperately looking at the sky and willing it to clear so he can get away. He figures Enjolras didn’t chase him just to stand awkwardly next to him, but he doesn’t know what to expect now. 

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, the words ripping Grantaire apart. It feels like a blade slicing him from the inside, the burn making him want to hunch over. He wasn’t expecting Enjolras to come clean so suddenly, but then again, it’s Enjolras — he’s never not going to come clean about things. 

He must’ve realized how fucked up it was when he saw the rest of Les Amis at the café, perhaps. Ran after Grantaire to come clean about the bet, explain how he didn’t know how bad it would be. Enjolras must know how Grantaire feels about him — it would be a disgrace if he didn’t — but Enjolras must be used to everyone harboring feelings towards him, or maybe he didn’t think twice about going for it since Grantaire has been an asshole to him and he deserved to be fucked up, just a bit, only he miscalculated and now he knows he went too far. 

No, that’s not fair. Grantaire knows Enjolras would never hurt anyone willingly. It’s not in his nature. He probably wasn’t aware of the depth of Grantaire’s feelings — hell, maybe their friends just wanted to mess with Enjolras, too. Make him talk with the person he despises the most, force Enjolras to spend time with him, to suffer in his company. 

Enjolras did look terribly uncomfortable during the whole spiel. Grantaire looks up at him and finds him equally out of sorts, if not worse than before. He seems to want to say more, but he’s biting his lip, and of course that’s what Grantaire’s gaze focuses on, like the idiot he is, longing to get a taste, to be able to bite into Enjolras’ lip just as he would bite a juicy grape. The guilt washes over him, quiet but insistent, telling him he should be looking away. 

His eyes travel further up and find Enjolras staring at him. Grantaire jumps slightly. Fuck. He can feel his cheeks warm up. For fuck’s sake, why can’t he be more subtle, why— 

“Can you tell me why you went away?” Enjolras asks softly. He’s speaking so gently, as if he's trying to calm down a wild animal, which Grantaire supposes he is. He doesn’t think he’s doing anything to warrant that reaction, but then again, people just assume he’s perpetually about to attack them just by looking at his face. “What did you mean with ‘report back’?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes before he can’t stop himself. He folds his arms around himself tightly and looks away. He’s so tired. If only he could lie down, regardless of the rain… 

He doesn’t want to acknowledge what happened, put words into the way he was made fun of, especially if Enjolras is still not aware that he had been part of it. Honestly, Grantaire thinks he’s being quite dramatic, but he’s been through the same shit over and over. He knows he’s more upset at himself than he could ever be at Enjolras, or even Les Amis. He’s angry that he can’t stop caring about them, that he’s willing to overlook the whole damn thing just to be among them, since he’s clearly that pathetic. He’s angry that despite knowing better, he’s still going to sit and grovel at them all, maybe try to soften the blow by being the one who laughs first, like usual. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, a note of warning in his tone. 

God, this is so unbearable. Why does he have to spell it out? Enjolras can’t be that dumb. 

“I don’t want your pity,” Grantaire mumbles, looking away. His heart is beating too fast inside his ribcage, and he wants to run, but he soldiers on. Enjolras would definitely run after him if he did, and Grantaire thinks it would be too stupid to play cat and mouse in the rain now. 

“I don’t pity you.” Enjolras turns to face him. Grantaire is still not looking at him, but he can feel it. “This isn’t about pity. I,” he falters. Grantaire still doesn’t want to look. Enjolras sighs. “I don’t pity you,” he repeats, softer. 

Grantaire doesn’t know what to reply to that. What does it mean then, that Enjolras ran in the rain to follow him? If it wasn’t pity, then what? 

“Then what are you doing here?” He asks before he can change his mind, in the same tone as Enjolras. 

“You didn’t bring an umbrella,” Enjolras says, as if that explains everything. Grantaire finally looks at him, which is a bad idea. Enjolras’ hair is still plastered against his head, but it doesn’t look bad. His eyes look watery, though Grantaire can hardly blame the conversation for that. It must be the weather. He really hopes Enjolras doesn’t wake up sick tomorrow. All for a stupid umbrella. 

“You didn’t bring me one,” he says, confused. 

“You didn’t answer.” Enjolras looks away, huddling inside Grantaire’s jacket. It seems to be bigger than Enjolras, despite the fact that he isn’t much taller than Grantaire. The action makes Grantaire’s stomach twist painfully. “What was I supposed to report?” 

Grantaire shivers under the cold. Why is Enjolras playing dumb now? Didn't he just apologize? Why is he trying to make Grantaire say it?

“I saw you,” he blurts, looking away as well. He doesn’t want to see recognition in Enjolras’ face. Not yet. 

Enjolras stays quiet, probably waiting for Grantaire to elaborate. The stupid rain keeps falling. 

“You kept looking at your friends.” It comes out sourer than he expected, the hurt bleeding through the words. “The table, you kept looking back—”

He can’t articulate the words. It’s like a stone’s stuck in his throat — trying to swallow hurts. He doesn’t want to sound childish, yet everything that comes to mind sounds like a reproach: _'you and your friends played with me! I know you're laughing at me!'_

What's the point in going that way, anyway? 

He burns. The feeling is overwhelming, burning his throat, his lungs, his core. He burns with shame — shame at the way he was played so easily, at his stupid feelings for everyone in that café, letting them cloud his judgement and trust again after so many years of closing off. How can he explain to Enjolras that this wound goes beyond what he possibly expected? Grantaire doesn't deserve sympathy. He doesn't think he would get it anyway. 

The rain is still falling. Grantaire thinks there's no way the world can match his mood now, unless the apocalypse were to come. His fingers itch for something to do — he's starting to grow restless. He needs a drink; he needs to disappear for a while. 

Enjolras is still quiet, as if he's trying to process whatever gibberish Grantaire just said. Maybe he should stop playing this stupid game and spare Grantaire the humiliation.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras repeats. Burn, burn, burn. Grantaire is on fire. "I was nervous." Grantaire sees Enjolras turn towards him out of the corner of his eye. He decides to stare at a streetlamp. "I still am," Enjolras continues, softer again. 

"They're not here to judge you now," Grantaire bites out. The lamp is not a really good distraction. 

"What?" 

“Oh, please, Enjolras.” Grantaire turns towards him, anger flaring through him. Okay, so he’s stupid and pathetic. He’s been the butt of the joke. Fine. “Do you seriously expect me to believe you had a sudden change of heart?” Enjolras breaks eye contact, looking sheepish. Grantaire really hates it when he’s right. “Coming out of the blue, asking me to, what? Start over? We’re not friends. You know that.”

“Maybe I wanted to change that,” Enjolras tells the ground, frowning. 

“But _why_? We only fight. We see the world differently—”

“That's hardly an excuse to—”

“Is it?” Grantaire cuts in. “You don't like me.”

“Oh, so now you know how I feel?” Enjolras snarls, turning to him. He looks furious. Why is he angry? Grantaire is stating a fact. It doesn't take a detective to figure out Enjolras' feelings towards him. 

Enjolras' eyes pierce through him, the fire behind them too much to handle. Grantaire looks away, confused. Enjolras seems to deflate a little. 

“This is not going how I planned,” he says, more to himself than to Grantaire. “I suppose I can't fault you in believing I don't care about you—”

“You don't,” Grantaire says, desperate. “Stop this. I know you don't mean it. Just stop doing this to me. They're not here.”

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire didn't think Enjolras could be a good actor, with the way he wears his heart on his sleeve, but the look of distress on his face is Oscar worthy. 

Grantaire has had enough. “You know what I'm talking about! Whatever they told you, it's all meant to be a big joke, I know.” He looks away. 

Enjolras is silent. For a moment, Grantaire fears laughter, Enjolras mocking him. Honestly, there’s no reason for Enjolras not to do that. Grantaire’s clearly been enough of an asshole to deserve this, however much it hurts. He looks up at the sky again, desperately willing it to clear so he can finally walk away. Enjolras is too close. 

There’s still no response. Is he thinking about how to explain? To apologize, maybe? The mere thought makes Grantaire cringe. Enjolras would be the type to apologize for a prank badly executed… would he? Grantaire’s head is swimming, not trusting himself anymore. 

The things don’t add up. If Enjolras was in on the joke, he wouldn’t have reacted like this, would he? He would know immediately what Grantaire was referring to. Maybe he was forced to play nice only, and is confused as to why that would hurt Grantaire more than the vitriol and arguing. 

He shivers again. Is there a possibility that Enjolras meant what he said? That he wanted to start over? No. No, there’s been no indication of that. Not today, not even this week. Sure, they haven’t argued as much lately, but that doesn’t mean that Enjolras wants to be his friend. Maybe he’s just tired of having to deal with Grantaire. It makes no sense that Enjolras had a sudden change of heart. Something must have happened. The only explanation is Les Amis. 

“A joke,” Enjolras says finally. There’s something unrecognizable in his voice, which makes Grantaire turn. Enjolras is staring ahead, frowning a little, but otherwise seems to be far away. “So, you knew all along?” 

“Knew?”

“You say you knew it was a joke.” His expression is a little frightening — he doesn’t look angry. The lines on his face are devoid of feeling. Grantaire’s never seen Enjolras like that.

“I don’t know what they told you,” Grantaire says, at a loss. Enjolras looks small under the jacket. Is there any way this day could end already? 

“But you said—”

“Forget it,” Grantaire cuts in. He groans, leaning against the wall as Enjolras turns to look at him. He seems wary. He opens his mouth and closes it again a few times. Grantaire sighs. 

“We’ve clearly been played,” he tries to joke. Enjolras looks even more confused. “I mean,” Grantaire tries again. “This is not the first time this has happened to me.” 

Enjolras keeps looking at him expectantly, so Grantaire groans again. Fuck. He really doesn’t want to sound like he’s looking for sympathy. “I know you don’t want to be my friend, which is fine. We can tell them I bought it all — hell, even if you were supposed to go out with me, we can just tell them we did, don’t worry about it.” Grantaire tries to look at the streetlamp again, but he’s still acutely aware of every nerve in his body. 

Enjolras is still fucking quiet, which is not fair. The rain hits the pavement before them — it doesn’t seem like it will stop soon. Great.

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Enjolras says finally. “Why would I lie to you? I meant what I said. Are you implying they forced me?” Grantaire doesn’t need to look at him to know that Enjolras is frowning. He can sense he’s being stared at really intensely, but he still doesn’t want to look. 

He sighs. “You really don’t need to do this.” 

“I think you need to tell me what it is that I’m doing,” Enjolras says, clearly angry. 

Grantaire tries to focus on the way the rain hits the pavement, the water drowning the noise inside his head. He desperately wants to believe this isn’t a game, but isn’t that what used to happen before, too? 

Then again, he’s not being fair to Enjolras. Thinking he somehow colluded with Les Amis to finally break Grantaire apart is too sinister a plan for someone like Enjolras, who always tries to see the best in people. Who trusts that, somehow, mankind can meet each other in the middle. 

It also makes no sense that everyone else would do such a thing. In all the time Grantaire has known them, they’ve never been rude to him, they’ve never made him feel less, or attacked him. He’s always been welcomed, hell, even more than necessary. They’re good people, which is why Grantaire loves them. 

He loves them all. 

Grantaire suddenly feels like his explanation is too stupid, but he can feel Enjolras radiating anger next to him. Despite it all, he’s still afraid. “I,” he starts, faltering. He doesn’t know how to explain the depth of how fucked up his brain is. He looks up at the rain. “You’ve made it clear that I’m not someone you like to have around. I know I am an asshole, and I keep antagonizing you. I am exhausting to be friends with, anyone can tell you that. I mean, I take too much space, I drink too much, I’m too cynical for your beliefs. I’m not a good person.” He takes a breath, the lump in his throat coming back. “I thought you were — you were mocking me,” he says at last. He can feel himself shaking, but he wants to believe it’s because of the weather. 

“It’s — well, it’s a thing that used to happen,” Grantaire continues. “People used to pretend to be my friend just to laugh at me.” He tries to smile, but can only grimace. “They’d make the people I liked ask me out, I would say yes, and then they laughed in my face. Or they would push me, or punch me, whatever it was. The laughing used to hurt more, though.” He closes his eyes. “Eventually I realized I wasn’t wanted,” he says, then laughs a little, only it comes out ragged. “I figured I’m not the kind of person people like, so I stopped trying.

“You are the first group of friends I’ve had in a long time,” he keeps going, unable to stop now. “You’ve never wanted anything to do with me, though, so I suppose having you come up to me like that resurfaced some stuff I thought I buried.” Grantaire opens his eyes. “I thought they forced you to be nice to me to make fun of me. I wouldn’t really fault you for doing that.”

Grantaire is scared about what he will find when he turns. He still does, finding Enjolras staring ahead in what can only be described as rage. Of course he didn’t have to worry about Enjolras sympathizing with him. Why he would be so angry about this is beyond Grantaire. He’s honestly tired of speculating. 

“You think so badly of us?” Enjolras asks quietly, when it’s clear that Grantaire won’t say more. 

Grantaire sighs, exasperated. “What am I supposed to think, Enjolras?”

“Have we ever given you the impression that we would do such a thing?” 

“Does it matter? You don’t understand, it’s not — it’s not about how you’ve acted,” Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. Enjolras eyes find his own, the anger still burning behind. 

“Isn’t it? Why the fuck would we play with you? How old do you think we are?”

“Age is not really a factor to consider in maturity or fucked up behavior—”

“Grantaire.” There’s something definitive about the tone. It makes sense that Enjolras would get offended on their friends’ behalf, but that still doesn’t explain why the fuck he kept looking back at them. Or literally anything that’s happening. “This isn’t a game. Nobody is pulling a prank on you.” 

“Sounds like something someone pulling a prank on me would say.” 

“Do you want me to throw you out into the rain?” Enjolras turns fully, staring him down. It might look more menacing if Enjolras wasn’t swimming in Grantaire’s jacket and his hair wasn’t all stuck to one side of his head. Grantaire can’t help but feel lighter.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but I am already soaking wet, so I don’t see what difference it would make.”

“You’re impossible,” Enjolras says, but he seems to be biting down a smile. The sight is absolutely irresistible: eyes shining, flushed cheeks, an oversized jacket — _Grantaire’s_ jacket — covering him. There’s something so bare, so sincere about the way Enjolras is looking at him. Grantaire feels something warm pool in his stomach. In a different world it would be so simple to go towards him and press their shoulders together, maybe close the distance further. 

He looks away, ashamed at his train of thought, at being caught staring at something so precious. “I told you, I am.” A thunder roars overhead, the promise of more rain to come. “Stupid rain,” he mumbles, rubbing his arms for warmth. 

“Do you want your jacket back?” Enjolras calls. Grantaire shakes his head, he still doesn’t want Enjolras to get cold. “Grantaire,” Enjolras says, tone indecipherable. “Come closer,” he commands, the words sending shivers down Grantaire’s spine. 

He looks over and sees Enjolras’ neck seems to be flushed as well. Grantaire really hopes Enjolras won’t get a cold, they’ve been outside for too long. Still, he finds himself obeying, as he’s wont to do, scooting closer until his shoulder almost touches Enjolras’. It’s as much as he dares, not sure of what’s going on anymore. Enjolras meets him halfway, pressing his shoulder against Grantaire’s. 

Grantaire’s not sure he’s breathing. His heart is beating too hard; it’s almost painful. 

“Why were you looking back, then?” he asks before he can help it, the fear still running through his veins. He can’t let himself hope, not about this. “At the table.” 

Enjolras eyes widen slightly. He opens his mouth and then closes it. He looks at a loss for words, which is not very encouraging. 

“I told you, I was nervous,” is what he says, which makes no fucking sense. Grantaire must look as confused as he feels, because Enjolras groans, looking at the sky. “Why are you so difficult?” 

“ _Me_?” Grantaire asks, incredulous. 

“Yes, you!” Enjolras rounds on him, the sudden movement separating them. Grantaire tries not to let the loss of Enjolras’ shoulder affect him too greatly. “I keep trying to find a way to talk to you, and when I finally do you create this— this horrible story in your head.” He gestures with his hands, the movements so volatile Grantaire is afraid Enjolras will hit him. “I can’t believe you would think I was _mocking you_ , like I’m some sort of villain, some horrible person trying to take advantage of you—”

“Hey, I never said anything about taking advantage—” Grantaire tries to interject. 

“Let me talk!” Enjolras yells, a thunder following after. Grantaire is stunned into silence, his mind reeling with images of Enjolras as Zeus, coming down to smite him. “God, you have no idea… This is going so badly.” Enjolras runs a hand over his face. “You drive me insane,” he says, desperate. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for the longest time, trying to join in your conversations with the others, but you always shut me out, or walk away. 

“I was sure you hated me,” he continues, a note of hysteria in his voice. “I was so hurt because everyone got to be around you but me,” he says, then laughs. Grantaire isn’t sure he’s hearing this right. “The only time I could get your whole attention was at meetings, and that’s always been so frustrating to me. You always find a way to drive me up the wall, and I fucking fall for your bait every single time.” He takes a deep breath, but he still looks frantic. “I’ve been so rude to you, so much, and I know I have, but you’ve also been so— so annoying!” He looks almost childish, a petulance that Grantaire hadn’t seen before and can’t help but find charming. “I could never understand why you insisted on being so contradictory all the time, it didn’t make sense. You always got along fine with everyone else, so the problem had to be me, right?

“I didn’t know how to be your friend. Your mind always seemed to run at a different pace than mine, or more like, like on a different track. I could hear your conversations with literally anyone, quoting fucking Plato and reciting lines from Bécquer in the same sentence.” Enjolras seems so agitated, like this really is something that bothers him. Grantaire can’t understand. “You seem to know everyone and every place in this town, you can make people laugh without trying, you keep saying you don’t care about our movement and yet you’re always there, you don’t make sense!” Enjolras yells again, his chest going up and down. 

“And I can’t believe you— you would think I would make fun of you,” he adds, his voice losing the fire it just had. “I’ve tried everything, Grantaire,” he says earnestly. “I went to your stupid parties, I went to every single one of your shows.” Grantaire’s stomach sinks. He never saw Enjolras at any of them, what the hell? “I tried to put together the pieces, and in doing that I fucked myself over,” Enjolras says, then smiles sadly. “I kept finding more and more reasons to want to be near you, to learn a bit more. I felt like a stalker.” He covers his eyes with one of his hands. “I wanted to be your friend, but in reality I want more.” He takes the hand off and looks directly at Grantaire’s eyes. “I’ve always wanted more.”

Grantaire is dreaming. He must be, there is no way in hell this is happening. No way. He must be lying in bed, feverish from his walk in the rain, dreaming that Enjolras wants him. It doesn’t make sense. Enjolras doesn’t want him. Grantaire’s nothing more than the dirt on his shoe, the drunkard that starts shit sometimes and that clings to his friends like a pesky fly. No one has ever had that kind of interest in him, ever, and it can’t be possible that _Enjolras_ of all people would be the one that does. No. It’s not real. It can’t be. 

He thinks back to the parties, their friends' reunions, every memory he can dredge up in which Enjolras was near. Sure, sometimes he would walk and sit down when Grantaire was having a beer with Joly and Bossuet, or playing cards with Jehan, or fighting over something with Bahorel… but Enjolras always addressed _them_ , not Grantaire. Enjolras barely looked in his direction. Grantaire would know, his eyes were always glued to Enjolras like a moth to flame. 

The only times he dared draw attention to himself was when Enjolras was a ways away from him, standing up and talking about some change he wanted to make. Distance was safe. From a distance he could stare and he could want without it being a problem. He could yell if he wanted Enjolras to look at him. Enjolras barely looks at him on any given day — how is Grantaire supposed to believe what he’s saying? The fear from before comes back with a vengeance: if he’s not dreaming in bed, then he’s definitely being played with. 

The panic must be clear on his face, because Enjolras starts shaking his head, placating. “No, I’m not joking, Grantaire. Look at me,” Enjolras commands, soft. Grantaire does, still unsure. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Then you have a very active imagination,” Grantaire says, half hysterical himself. “You don’t want me, Enjolras.”

“This again?” Enjolras says, not unkindly. “Trust me, I know what I feel.” He moves one step towards Grantaire. 

“Then you _really_ have a very active imagination,” Grantaire repeats, moving away from him. “I’m not whatever ideal you have of me, Enjolras. I don’t know what you think you saw in me, but I can guarantee you, I’m not that man.” His voice sounds bitter to his own ears, but it’s the truth. If what Enjolras said is true, then he pieced the puzzle back together all wrong. Grantaire has no redeeming qualities, nothing that can make a person want him. He’s not made for love. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Enjolras says, apologetic. “I didn’t mean to say that I want you, you just make me lose control and I end up saying more than I want.” 

“So, you don’t want me then?” 

Enjolras closes his eyes. “I do. I just didn’t want you to know that yet.” He pauses, then laughs, looking away. “God, I really sound like a creepy stalker.” He sighs. “In truth, I wanted us to be friends first, see if I was wrong with my assessment,” he says, still looking away. “But I’ve been attracted to you for a while, even before I started looking for clues.

“Everyone always said you felt the same way, but I never believed them. You never talked to me, how could you feel something for me?” He turns to Grantaire, the sad smile back on his face. “If it makes you feel any better, I never intended to act upon my feelings. Not until everyone convinced me to tell you how I felt. That’s what they said, by the way,” he adds, looking down. “They told me I should just talk to you about how I feel, but I thought I needed to make amends first. I kept looking back at them because I was nervous I would screw it up, which is what happened anyway.” 

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think it can be that simple, not after all the emotions he went through today. A small part of him wants to believe what Enjolras is saying, and it does sound more likely than the crazy idea he made up in his brain, but it’s too good to be true. Besides, the fact Enjolras keeps insisting he’s somehow attracted to Grantaire makes no sense. 

How is he supposed to believe it’s all true?

It seems like the perfect trap: all he needs to do is accept what Enjolras is saying as true and offer up his heart, only for it to be stomped in the ground. Then again, isn’t that what he’s expecting anyway? Grantaire’s always been under the impression that Enjolras didn’t care about him; hearing now that Enjolras has been trying to find a way to talk to him turns everything upside down. Now Grantaire’s choices are simple: he either gets his heart broken, which he was already expecting, or he gets to… to what? Be with Enjolras? That’s ridiculous. 

Enjolras himself said he wasn’t going to act on his feelings. He even said he wanted to try out being friends first, which is a logical step. He’s right: despite Grantaire’s certainty in his own feelings, he’s never allowed himself near Enjolras for worry of being rejected. His own fears have clouded his judgment — of course, he still thinks he’s justified in those fears, but regardless, he still made friends with Les Amis. Somehow, without being fully aware of it, he allowed himself to hang out with those guys, to grow fond of them, to love them. Despite everything. 

To think they’re the same people Grantaire believed were just like everyone before. He knows he’s done them a great disservice, accusing them of plotting a way to rile him up, when Enjolras is right: they’ve never been the type of people to do something like that. The worst Grantaire has seen any of them do was the time Joly ate all of the pastries Jehan had prepared for a charity event, and that was only because Joly had worked overtime at the hospital and hadn’t eaten anything the whole day. 

They’re good people. They’re good people, and Grantaire somehow lucked out when they accepted him into their ranks. 

“I feel so stupid,” Grantaire says, fighting the urge to cover his face in shame. “I didn’t mean to spiral like this, I’m sorry,” he whispers, unable to look at Enjolras. “It’s just— it’s hard to trust people. I don’t know how,” he breathes out, his voice breaking a little. Goddammit, he doesn’t want to cry. He tries to laugh instead. “Well, at least now you get a taste of the real thing, I’m a fucked-up mess—”

“I don’t think you are,” Enjolras says softly. That damn gentle tone again. “Or, well, I suppose we’re all a little fucked up, aren’t we? You’ve been hurt a great deal.” Grantaire turns at the sudden shift in tone, finding Enjolras angry again. “I can’t understand how anyone could find joy in tormenting someone else,” he bites out. Is he angry on Grantaire’s behalf? 

“Have you ever been outside? It’s not exactly uncommon,” Grantaire says, trying to joke, but missing the mark completely, judging by the way Enjolras’ shoulders droop. Grantaire takes a step forward. “Hey,” he says, nudging Enjolras’ shoulder. “It was a long time ago.”

“But you’re still hurt by it,” Enjolras protests, pressing his shoulder against Grantaire’s. “Enough that you would honestly think we would do the same.” Enjolras’ eyes find his, and Grantaire swallows. Enjolras is too close. 

Grantaire fights the urge to step away — if Enjolras didn’t want him close, then he, Enjolras, would be the one to move away, and that's not happening. It’s hard, trusting in what Enjolras is saying, but Grantaire finds that he wants to believe. He’s so tired of keeping everyone at arm’s reach. 

There’s a voice inside him urging him to stop being an idiot, that he will still get hurt, even if he goes along with the reality Enjolras is presenting to him. Grantaire’s still a fucked-up mess, he’s still ugly as a gargoyle and annoying to no end. Once Enjolras “befriends” him, Enjolras will know, and whatever illusion he created in his own mind will vanish. Grantaire’s heart will be broken.

Still, there’s another voice telling him he should stop losing himself in scenarios that haven’t happened. He’s no oracle; he can’t know the future. Maybe Enjolras will stop being attracted to him, but they'd still be friends. That’s honestly more than Grantaire deserves. 

“I can’t promise it won’t happen again,” he says. “But I think you could smack some sense into me if I start doomsaying, don’t you?” 

Enjolras laughs, the sound melting Grantaire’s heart. He can’t help but smile. 

“You know,” Enjolras says, still looking at him. “I know I said I want us to be friends first, but I would really like to kiss you now.” Grantaire’s stomach sinks. Enjolras must see the change in his face, because he’s quick to add: “I’m sorry, I haven’t really asked you how you feel, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—” 

“No,” Grantaire says quickly, despite his heart suddenly hammering against his chest. “It’s not that, I— I do. Have feelings for you, that is,” he adds, feeling his face grow warm. His eyes travel down to Enjolras’ lips, finding them slightly parted. He must notice Grantaire staring because he smiles a little. “Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes, looking back into Enjolras’ eyes. “Please don’t joke about this.” 

“I’m not,” Enjolras says, and there’s something about the way he says it — the confidence, the certainty, that Grantaire can’t help but believe him. “I’m not,” he says again, taking hold of Grantaire’s face in his hands. Enjolras’ gaze pierces directly into his eyes; Grantaire doesn’t think he’s breathing. “Do you trust me?” 

Grantaire nods, the movement a little limited since Enjolras is holding his head. Enjolras seems to realize this and lets go, looking embarrassed, but Grantaire takes hold of his hands. 

It’s the boldest thing he’s ever done. Enjolras’ hands are cold, and they feel dainty and soft in his own. Grantaire fights the urge to bring them to his lips, to warm them up, or kiss them. He decides to stare at Enjolras instead, since he finds himself at a loss for words. 

“Can I kiss you then?” Enjolras asks. “I promise this isn’t a joke. I’m not going to laugh at you, I just really like you, and—” Grantaire closes the distance between them to press a soft kiss to Enjolras’ lips. Scratch that, _this_ is the boldest thing he’s ever done. He panics for a second, thinking he probably wasn’t supposed to do that, when Enjolras disentangles one of his hands from Grantaire’s grip and uses it to pull him closer, deepening the kiss. 

Enjolras’ hand moves through Grantaire’s hair as he works his mouth open, the touch soft and demanding at the same time. Grantaire can barely keep up — next thing he knows, he is pressing Enjolras against the wall, both of Enjolras' arms around Grantaire’s shoulders. The rain is a distant sound in the background, his whole mind focused on Enjolras. 

First kisses shouldn’t feel like this, like he didn’t know what being alive was for until he pressed his mouth to Enjolras’. Grantaire always thought that was bullshit people said to hype it up more than it deserved — after all, it’s just two mouths touching — but he finds himself agreeing with the poets. Enjolras’ mouth tastes like the finest wine, like heaven. He can’t get enough. 

Oh, how long had he been dreaming with this? Grantaire can’t believe it’s truly happening — not only that he gets to taste the man of his dreams, but that he’s _allowed_ to. Enjolras _wants_ him: this is not a fantasy, not a joke. He’s holding Enjolras in his arms, feeling Enjolras sigh against his lips, tasting Enjolras' tongue in his mouth. It just might be the best moment of Grantaire’s life. 

He doesn’t know how long it takes for them to draw apart, but they finally do, smiling at each other. Enjolras’ face is completely coloured, his eyes shining. Grantaire loves him so much. 

Before he can say anything, though, Grantaire sneezes into the crook of his arm. 

Enjolras tuts. “You shouldn’t have given me your jacket,” he tells Grantaire, but he looks fond. 

“You needed it more than me.” 

“Ah, I guess we’ll see what tomorrow says,” Enjolras smirks, clinging to him. “We should probably head back inside.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. See, we’re completely drenched,” Grantaire says, faux serious. Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

“Do you have another idea?” 

“I think I can come up with something else,” Grantaire says, wiggling his eyebrows. Enjolras laughs, caressing his face. 

“We need to get you out of those clothes.” 

“I definitely agree.” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras warns, but he’s smiling. “Be serious.” 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Grantaire says, tugging Enjolras close to him. He doesn’t remember being this happy in a very long time. Who would’ve thought he was made for love after all? 

The rain is still falling, but it’s not so strong anymore. Before he can think it through, Grantaire walks out of their hiding place, pulling Enjolras with him. Enjolras goes readily, linking their fingers together. Grantaire honestly doesn’t care if he gets a cold tomorrow, he’s too happy to feel anything else right now. 

Suddenly, Enjolras tugs at him hard, dragging him along. He turns to Grantaire just as they’re about to reach a streetlamp, the water cascading down his face. He looks happy, so Grantaire doesn’t think he should be concerned. 

Enjolras steps towards him, pressing his body close to Grantaire’s. He uses the hand that isn’t holding him to move away some of the curls on Grantaire’s face, leaving his hand on Grantaire’s cheek. 

“I only want you to be happy,” he whispers, closing the distance between them with another kiss. This one is softer, sweeter. Grantaire swoons, scooping Enjolras in his arms. 

“Aren’t you going to get sick, too?” Grantaire says when they part. 

Enjolras shrugs. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he says as he grabs Grantaire’s arm and drags him away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ Kudos and comments are food for the soul and greatly appreciated!
> 
> Come say hi in [tumblr](http://johnnsilvers.tumblr.com/)!


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